


pretty girls make graves

by hejustlikeshoney



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/M, because the new year could start on any day we choose, i didn't proofread this well so suffer with me, the gregorian calendar is basically just a social construct
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:30:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hejustlikeshoney/pseuds/hejustlikeshoney
Summary: sorrow's native son.





	pretty girls make graves

**Author's Note:**

> tolstoy likes to ramble about free will for an unnecessary amount of time, and so do i. 
> 
> enjoy me dumping metaphysical and ethical controversy into two paragraphs and once again putting either too much or hardly any meaning into my writing.

He had first seen her in a cemetery, sitting at the top of a hill and eating an apple, looking as if she owned everything she laid eyes on. Her back was against one of the gravestones, her legs were stretched out in front of her, and she was taking in all the sun there was. She seemed to take no notice of him, when he came and knelt at the plot next to her. For a while Dolokhov sat there, praying for his family, for his life, and for any other thought that came into his mind. He was not entirely sure who he was praying to, or why he was taking the time to do so, but he hoped some deity heard him and would be willing to help him along.

Did he really want the interference of a higher power, though, if he was such a firm believer in free will? All of his life leading up to tomorrow was based on his own decisions. Why should he ask anyone else to influence them?

Eventually, he looked over at the girl next to him, who had finished the apple and was aiming to chuck the core at one of the stones below, her eyes narrowed in complete focus. He turned back to his prayers, wearing a faint smile. 

She muttered a curse, and won Dolokhov’s attention again. He followed her gaze down to the base of the hill, where the core of the apple sat in the grass, rather far from where she had intended to throw it. He chuckled.

She acknowledged him for the first time, and she even looked surprised to see him there, as if he really had been invisible before. “I like you,” she said, her lips twitching for a moment before she smiled.

No questions, no introductions?

“Who are you?”

She ignored him. Her took notice of how her head was tilted to one side, and her eyes seemed to not completely be focused on him. A moment later, he realized she was trying to read the gravestone next to him.

“That was your father,” she remarked, frowning. “How tragic.”

Dolokhov nodded, unable to figure much out about the girl for himself besides the fact that she was dressed like she was rich. He backed up to sit against his father’s gravestone, mimicking the girl, and looked out over the expanse of grass at the base of the hill, pensively.

“He died in the military.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Dolokhov shot her a glare, but she was not looking in his direction. She visibly heaved a sigh, angering Dolokhov a little. She had mentioned his father, so he was going to tell her about him.

“There was no battle. He died in an accident. One of the other soldiers missed his mark.”

“And you’re going to join the military, too, to take care of all the things he never did.”

“Tomorrow.”

The girl was smiling, and she was looking back at him again. Her expression had a strange and uncommon undertone of wisdom in it. It seemed she was used to talking to people, more than a person of her age should be, and knew their predictability. 

“Hélène,” she said, introducing herself.

“Fyodor—”

“—Ivanovich Dolokhov. I can read.” 

She examined his expression and opened her mouth as if she might apologize for interrupting him so many times, but decided against it, instead shutting her mouth and looking down at the grass, beginning to pull up pieces from the ground and rip them apart. For a minute, they were both silent, and the breeze was suddenly audible, rustling the grass and their hair, the leaves in a nearby tree. 

Without looking up, Hélène spoke. “Can I kiss you?”

For some reason, he was not at all taken aback by this. She seemed so sure of herself, and phrased it so much like any everyday request that he did not feel he should question her. 

“Yes.”

He assumed she asked him out of pity. For all they knew, the next time she saw him might be in this exact cemetery, six feet under this very patch of grass, next to his father.

To live a moment is one thing, but to live a moment to its fullest provides for an altogether different experience. They could have sat there in silence, listening to the wind all around them and feeling the eerie peace of the cemetery, but to sense an experience and not participate in it deprives the human soul of its necessity to be a part of nature. There was nothing romantic in the kiss, just the feeling of partaking in beauty. It was in the sky, the grass, the headstones, and it was in the two of them as well.

Free will does not exist, he thought, as he pulled away from her and looked into her eyes. Time creates the finite. The finite creates limits. He was subject to those limits. He realized the beating of her heart was like each passing second, and he could not control how her heart beat. Thus, he could never control time, and could never have free will.

He did not believe in God. He believed that all power, all knowledge, all hope, all feeling, and all strength, was subject to the dictation of time.

He would see her again, but that was not his choice. It was what time permitted him to do. Their relationship would only develop continually the longer he knew her, that was certain.

The only thing he could never be sure of was in which direction it would turn.

**Author's Note:**

> [outro]  
> oh...  
> hand in glove...  
> the sun shines out of our behinds...  
> oh…


End file.
